White Walls
by Fxreflies
Summary: While Thomas was locked in a white room for 26 days, Minho got the choice between life and death. Phase Three has just begun, and the Glader's aren't quiet happy. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Hello, again. :D

I'm sorry about Lost in Thought; I haven't been updating in a while. But...just give me a few more days.

I did not read The Maze Runner Files, though I really want to. It seems that there are a lot of e-mails, memories, ect. that were also in The Fever Code but I still want to read it. Anyways, I heard about Minho's Phase Three Trial and wrote this up because I didn't read the Files. I don't know how Lincoln was supposed to look, so I just made him a casual doctor type. If you don't understand that, you will. Just read.

* * *

 _WICKED_ _freaking sucks_ , Minho thought as he was separated from the others. _Ratman sucks, and the color white sucks too_.

He was walking down a all blank hallway with florescent light above and Ratman - Janson, whatever his name actually was - and Newt. Well, he _was_ walking with Newt until he got locked up into a white-walled room with a white door and white floors. Every door they passed was the same. And, not to mention, the white clothes Minho was wearing as well. It matched - literally everything else.

They'd taken his watch as well; Minho had no idea of the time. But it seemed like just the two of them could be walking forever down the long, boring, _white_ hallway. Drained of color. The silence was too loud.

" _Where_ are we going?" Minho asked. "We've been walking for _years_."

Ratman huffed, but he kept walking, so Minho followed. "We've been walking for less than six minutes, actually. And, you will see where we will end up at."

Minho sighed and kept walking. He would have ran off by now but there were obviously cameras at ever corner in the _white_ walls. Not to mention the guards that were randomly walking around with weapons. With those, he would never get away. Not alone. But, he easily could have punched Ratman in the gut and ran back like he was in the Maze. What difference was there? WICKED could have just put the Gladers in the facility and see if they could get out.

It would be just as hard with all the white walls that would get on Minho's nerves. Every turn looked like the one before it. It was like he was walking in the Maze again. Of course, without the vines and the Grievers who wanted to stab every moving thing they saw so the poor chap could see the past. The past that Minho would like to never know about, but well, he did know about it.

"Well," Ratman said, "here we are."

"Very homey," Minho mumbled, looking at the white door that looked just like all the others. "I like the color of this one."

Ratman pulled out keys and started to unlock the white door. "I do not appreciate your smart remarks, Minho."

"I wasn't asking for your opinion," Minho replied.

Ratman didn't answer but he did put his arms out and pointed to the door - which opened inward - motioning for Minho to go inside - as if he had a choice. There was this sort of smile on Ratman's face as he did it, though. At least, Minho guessed it was a smile.

Minho walked inside and turned, so he was facing Ratman still. The door was still open and Ratman was starting to shut the door and lock it when Minho crossed his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side, mimicking the _smile_ Ratman gave him. The supposed doctor looked up and rolled his eyes before he shut the door. Minho heard the _click_ of the lock and knew he was now alone. Well, except for the cameras because there was definitely cameras and people watching his every move. Even in an isolated room with no windows.

Minho turned around to look at what he had to work with: florescent lights, padded walls, wooden table, no bed, and a small, almost-hidden stainless-steel toilet in the corner. Just looked just like the room Newt was throw into. Minho had caught a glimpse of it when Ratman opened the door.

"Well this is _very_ homey!" Minho cheerfully said to no-one.

He pasted around the room, looking for a camera or something of any sorts that someone could watch him through. Nothing. But there had to be something there. They wouldn't just lock him in a room without anyone watching him, right? Minho's arms had dropped when he dropped. He sat with his back on the wall and his legs unbent, going forward.

Boredom was taking over.

 _Out of everything they forced us into doing_ , Minho thought, _this is how it ends?_

Time seemed to take forever just to pass. Minho started to paste around the room again. This time, not looking for a camera, it just gave him something to do. Something to bring him away from this thoughts. _One foot in front of the other_. He placed the table in the middle of the white room and pasted around that. Why was there even a table in there? Minho had no use for it. Time was dragging on, though, no matter what he did.

So he thought about a way to escape.

 _Click!_

The door. Minho ran back to crouch next to the door, his back just touching the white wall so when the door opened he could run out and tackle the person with the keys. Then run and unlock Newt's room. Then...well, that was future Minho's problem. The door opened in, the white frame was on the other side then where Minho was crouching.

 _On the count of 3,_ Minho thought. _1, 2-_

"Stand up."

"How did you-?" Minho asked.

"There are cameras in here and a tiny person in my ear telling me where you are. Now get up."

"Funny," Minho replied, obeying. He stood up and took a step forward so he was in front of the door. "What now?"

"Now we are gonna go take a little walk. Follow me, or get shot."

Minho stepped out of the white room and entered the white hallway once more. He followed whatever-his-name is to wherever they were going. While they were walking down the hallway - because everything was so far away - Minho studied his escort: tall, black hair and a Hollywoodian type of beard; he had a white lab coat on with a plain black shirt and pant underneath, and apparently he had a gun as well - or else the threat from before would be empty. But no weapon was visible. Other than the clipboard he held in his hand with papers on top of it.

"In here," No-Name said, opening a door. A door that looked just like all the other ones. "Sit down in a chair."

Minho walked inside the room and looked around a bit before talking a seat in a wooden chair. It was a basically empty room - other than a table, hand-held whiteboard with a plain black marker on the table, and two chairs. The walls, they were white, just like the floor and ceiling.

"Why is everything so white?" Minho asked. "It's boring."

No-Name slowly shut the door and then took a seat in the empty chair. He pulled the whiteboard closer to him. "I'm sorry it doesn't please you, Minho," he replied. "My name is Lincoln. Give me a moment to write somethings down."

 _He didn't lock the door,_ was Minho's first thought. _It's open. I could run_. Unless No-Name - _Lincoln_ \- really did have a gun. Maybe its another test? But it was too late; Lincoln flipped the whiteboard. It revealed eight names.

 _Thomas, Newt, Frypan, Aris, Harriet, Sonya, Teresa and Brenda._

"What is this?" Minho asked. He stood up, getting worried. "What is this about?"

"Please, Minho, sit down," Lincoln said, as Minho slowly sat back down. "The doctors here at WICKED have decided that we needed to dissect the brains of all but one of these people on the board here."

"No."

Ignoring Minho, Lincoln continued. "You are the lucky person who get's to choose who's brain stays whole."

"No," Minho repeated. "I'm not choosing _one_ out of _eight_ of my friends to _not kill_."

"Fine," Lincoln said, placing the board back on the table. He stood up and walked in front of Minho, who was looking up at him. "Suit yourself."

Lincoln then extended his arm and punched Minho in the face. Minho, who wasn't expecting that to happen, fell back in his chair. He immediately stood up and kicked the chair away, bringing his hands up to his face. His lower lip was slightly bleeding and the blood was transferring to his figures.

"What the shuck was that for?" Minho snapped, dabbing his bloody figures from his lip, to pants.

"I apologize," Lincoln said, wiping his fist on his white coat, "but you did not answer. _Who_ would you like to save?"

"I'm not choosing-"

Lincoln punched again. This time slightly harder.

" _Again_?" Minho raised his voice. He wiped his lip on his shoulder and turned around, spitting blood on the floor.

Minho never really liked Teresa - and he wasn't afraid to show it - especially after what she did out in the Scorch, but she didn't deserve to die. Same to say with Aris; he was just a quiet kid but Minho was still on the edge about him after the Scorch. Newt had already been through enough. Thomas was just trying to help, and besides, WICKED saved him from a bullet wound, why would they let him die now? Sonya and Harriet, Minho only got a few glimpse of them, but they didn't seem _so_ bad. Frypan? Well, he can cook! And Brenda? Minho still doesn't know about her all the way. She's saved them a few times, though.

Still, none of them should die. Minho wouldn't allow it. Not after everything they've been through. He was the Leader and the leader takes care of their followers. Screw those signs in the Scorch. Why he give up and let all but one die was a sickening thought. Minho wasn't going to pick one person. He was so determined to save them all, not caring about being beaten up and threatened.

"Minho, pick one," Lincoln declared.

"Thomas."

"Great choice!" Lincoln replied. "I'll-"

"And Newt and Frypan and Aris and Harriet and Sonya and Teresa and Brenda."

This time, Minho got two punches in a row. He staggered backward, placing his hand on the cool metal of the white door which now had drips of his own blood on it. Minho pushed his right hand down and the door popped open. _Gotta get out of here_ , he thought. He took a few steps into the white hallway, looking down at his feet.

"Get back in there."

Minho's head snapped up, now looking at another person. A guard, actually. He was a bit shorter than Minho and the Launcher was out, pointing at his chest.

"Go back inside and take a seat," the guard repeated.

Minho listened and turned around, reentering the room with Lincoln - who now had a pistol in his hand and was pointing it at Minho. He picked up the chair that he kicked - which surprisingly wasn't broken - and sat back down.

"Oh, come on, Minho," Lincoln said, throwing his hands in the air. The gun made Minho more on edge. "You didn't think you could just get away that easily, did you? I thought you were smarter."

Minho huffed. "I am not gonna pick one! I am gonna save all shuckin' eight of my friends!"

Lincoln motioned for the guard to leave. Minho - this time - heard the _click!_ of the door locking. Lincoln, who was leaning on the wooden table, then looked back to Minho. "Last time I checked, you weren't the one making' the calls, now, were you?" he said. "No, I am. Now, who is the unlucky person you'd like to save?"

"All. Eight."

Minho got thrown two punches again. Pain shot throughout his body and he winced.

Lincoln looked to Minho like he was displeased and brought his hand to his ear like he was calling someone. He then started to mumbled just enough for Minho to hear: "Test complete. Patient refused to choose and showed acts of determination to save all eight. Bring Janson."


	2. Chapter 2

"A test?" Minho repeated, slowly standing up. "This was all a freaking test? You WICKED shanks said if we made it to the _Safe Heaven_ everything'd be finished."

"Please, Minho," Lincoln said. All of a sudden he was calm now. "You have to understand this is all for the brain patterns; we are making a cure."

"No, don't 'Please, Minho' me," Minho snapped. "You wanted me to _kill_ my friends over some dumb test."

"You aren't the only person who had a Third Trial."

Minho rolled his eyes. "I wanna see them now," he demanded. "Show me my friends."

"That is not possible; they are still completing the Third Trial," Lincoln replied. "Now, wait for A. D. Janson to return so you can go have some dinner."

 _Like I wanna see_ his _rat face again_ , Minho thought.

But the pair waited. For about ten minutes because the white hallways were endless. Minho wondered about what the others Trial might have been. He was put under a lot of pressure during his but getting punched in the face a few hard times was better than spending forever without his friends. He then thought about how the workers even knew which door is which and where to turn. This place really was like a giant labyrinth.

But eventually, Ratman unlocked the door and appeared. Same long nose, same weasel-like eyes; that greasy hair, combed over an obvious bald spot that took up half his head. Same ridiculous white suit. He looked paler than the last time Minho had seen him when they were walking down the hallway. He was holding a thick folder filled with dozens of crinkled and messily stacked papers in the crook of one elbow.

"Good morning and well done, Minho," he said, taking in the mess the room had become. "Lincoln, you can go."

"With pleasure." Lincoln stood up, and walked out.

"Do you know why you are here?" Ratman asked sitting in the empty chair across from Minho, once Lincoln left - he locked the door. Ratman placed the folder in front of him on the table with the whiteboard, opened it and started flipping through the pages. When he found what he'd been looking for he stopped and rested his hands on top. Then he flashed a pathetic grin, his eyes settling on Minho.

"Why did you want me to kill my bestfriends over a test?"

Not even a flicker of change passed over the man's expression. "I apologize about that, but it needed to happen. You're going to be hearing plenty of positive news today, though. Trust me."

"Yeah, right," Minho replied. "What? 'Congratulations! Not _all_ of your friends are dead! Just _most_ of them are.'"

Ratman remainde silent for several seconds before he responded. "I thought you would be smarter than this, Minho. Have intelligence." He paused and studied Minho before continuing. "Do you think we enjoy all this? You think we enjoy watching you suffer? It's all been for a purpose, and very soon it will make sense to you." The intensity of his voice had built until he'd practically shouted that last word, his face now red.

Minho wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ratman had spit a bit on him. "Slim it there, you sprinkler. You just shuckin' spit on me."

The man stood from his chair and leaned forward on the desk. The veins in his neck bulged in taut cords. He slowly sat back down, took several deep breaths. "Would you like me to get Lincoln to punch you some more? Because you took quite a beating. Small, arrogant child."

"Well, then what's this _positive news_ , huh?" Minho asked, ignoring Ratman's comment. He already knew someone was watching. "I'm not crazy? Don't have the Flare, never did, never will?" Minho felt his anger rise, but he didn't lower it. He smacked the table with an open palm. "You promised a cure after the Scorch. I knew it was a lie; everything is now. But what's gonna be next? Throw me out of a shuck plane with no parachute? Climb Mount Everest in one day?"

Ratman was just staring at Minho with blank eyes as he went through his rant. Like the doctor had already done this thousands of ties with other people. "Finished now?"

"I want true answers and I want them now."

"Minho," Ratman said quietly, as if delivering sad news to a small child. "We didn't lie to you; you do have the Flare."

Minho was taken back. He opened his mouth to replied with another sarcastic comment, but came up lost. _Was Ratman lying now?_ he wondered. _Still?_ "Then how come I don't look like those freaks out in the Scorch?" he asked. He knew, while in the Scorch, running along with the Cranks he would catch the virus. But he still felt okay, still sane.

Ratman sighed. "You don't understand. That's what I came here to tell you and you don't understand."

"And after everything you still think I'm gonna believe you?"

Minho's fists were in balls. He was digging his nails into his hands with heavy breaths. Ratman's stare was cold, his eyes black pits. Regardless of whether this man was lying to him, Minho knew he was going to have to hear him out if he ever wanted to leave this room. He forced his breathing to slow just a bit. He waited.

After several seconds of silence, his visitor continued. "I know we've lied to you. Often. We've done some awful things to you and your friends-"

Minho interrupted with a hacking cough. It was fake, of course, but he wanted to prove a point.

Ratman continued. "But. It was all part of a plan. We've had to take it all a little farther than we'd hoped in the beginning - there's no doubt about that. However, everything has stayed true to the spirit of what the Creators envisioned."

"This speech is beautiful, I must say, but you didn't answer my question. How can you possible expect me to believe anything you or anyone says anymore?" Minho knew that Thomas and that trader Teresa worked for WICKED, but he trusted them.

"Because, Minho, there's no value in keeping you in the dark," Ratman said. "Not anymore."

Minho leaned back in his chair. Was this a lie, too, now? "Why have me in the dark to start with?"

Ratman kept talking, but his tone changed; it became less detached and clinical and more professorial. "You know that already: it was part of the Trials. You are obviously well aware that we have a horrible disease eating the minds of humans worldwide. Everything we've done up till now has been calculated for one purpose and one purpose only: to analyze your brain patterns and build a blueprint from them. The goal is to use this blueprint to develop a cure for the Flare. The lives lost, the pain and suffering—you knew the stakes when this began. We all did. It was all done to ensure the survival of the human race. And we're very close. Very, very close."

Minho remembered when Thomas stung himself just to remember. He said he was a part of this - helped make WICKED, well, WICKED. And yet he trusted Thomas. Why was that, Minho doesn't know. Thomas created this whole mess. He built the Maze, then threw everyone inside of it. Maybe, who knew, maybe Thomas was still in on it. _Nah,_ Minho thought, _we came to far for him to just all be lying_.

"So what is your point here?" Minho asked. No, he didn't trust Ratman, but he wanted to see what the man would say.

The Rat Man might have smiled, but it looked more like he was sneering - just like when Minho was being locked in the white room. He started to collect his papers as if to go but didn't move. "I'm here to tell you that everything is set and our data is almost complete. We're on the cusp of something great. Once we have the blueprint, you can go boo-hoo with your friends all you want about how unfair we've been."

A voice deep inside was telling Minho that everything was a lie and he should just take this man out and run. That small voice had kept him alive so far. He stood up. "So you're gonna watch us die for a cure?"

"Yes." Ratman sighed - he'd told Minho so many times already but Minho still was unsure about it all. "But, in the meantime, there's something you need to know - it might even bring you back to your senses."

Minho rolled his eyes. "And what could that possibly be?" He had drearily thoughts about Ratman's words: _In the meantime_.

His visitor stood up, smoothed the wrinkles out of his pants and adjusted his coat. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and looked Minho straight in the eyes. "The Flare virus lives in every part of your body, yet it has no effect on you, nor will it ever. You're a member of an extremely rare group of people. You're immune to the Flare."

Minho sat back down, now intrigued. " _Immune_."

"On the outside, in the streets, they call people like you Munies," Ratman continued, looking down at Minho now. "And they really, really hate you."

At first, Minho wanted to stand up again and punch Ratman in the face, yelling, _Well I really, really hate you, shuck-face!_ But his words washed over Minho again and he didn't think it was a lie. It made the most sense. He, and probably the other Gladers and everyone in Group B, was immune to the Flare. Which was why they'd been chosen for the Trials. Everything done to them - every cruel trick played, every deceit, every monster placed in their paths - it all had been part of an elaborate experiment. And somehow it was leading WICKED to a cure.

"I can see that you believe me this time, Minho," Ratman finally said, breaking the long silence. "Once we'd discovered there were people like you - with the virus rooted inside, yet showing no symptoms - we sought out the best and the brightest among you. This is how WICKED was born. Of course, some in your trial group are not immune, and were chosen as control subjects. When running an experiment you need a control group. It keeps all the data in context."

"But why would you-" Minho started. "Who isn't-" he tried again.

"Who isn't immune?" Ratman finished, eyebrows raised. "Oh, I think they should find out before you, don't you? A list will be read in a few weeks." Ratman then picked up his file and cocked his head as if asking, _Any more questions_?

Minho accepted the offer. "Why was the Save Haven a shuckin' stick?" he asked.

"Well, we can't just have our base out in the out, now, can we?" Ratman replied.

Minho nodded. "Fair enough. Why did you lie that there'd be a cure at the safe haven, though?"

Ratman shrugged. "I don't think it was a lie at all. By completing the Trials, by arriving at the safe haven, you helped us collect more data. And because of that there will be a cure. Eventually. For everyone."

"And why are you telling me all this now after you cleared my memory? Why was a test being forced to kill my friends?" Minho touched his face once more. He then motioned to the whiteboard. "Why did you make Teresa a shuck-trader and beat Thomas with wood? What could possibly be the point? Why? Is? Everything? White?"

"Variables," Ratman answered simply. "Everything we've done to you has been carefully calculated by our Psychs and doctors. Done to stimulate responses in the killzone, where the Flare does its damage. To study the patterns of different emotions and reactions and thoughts. See how they work within the confines of the virus that's inside you. We've been trying to understand why in you, there's no debilitating effect. It's all about the killzone patterns, Minho. Mapping your cognitive and physiological responses to build a blueprint for the potential cure. It's about the cure."

"Killzone?"

"The killzone is your brain. It's where the virus settles and takes hold. The more infected the killzone, the more paranoid and violent the behavior of the infected. WICKED is using your brain and those of a few others to help us fix the problem. If you recall, our organization states its purpose right in its name: World in Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment Department." Rat Man looked pleased with himself. Almost happy. "Now come on, let's get you cleaned up. And just so you know, we're being watched. Try anything and there'll be consequences."

Minho just sat there. He was frustrated. All of this information was being thrown at him at once. It was too much after forgetting everything. He was trying to process everything. It felt _true_. But he didn't want to believe it. "Why is everything white, though?" Minho asked again.

"It's a simple color."

"I don't like it. And I still don't wanna trust you.'

"Come with me, Minho," Ratman said, "so we can get you cleaned up."

Minho shook his head. "I don't want you WICKED freaks near me anymore. I need to process everything."

"That's a shame." Ratman padded Minho's shoulder. "Let's go get your own blood off of you."

That sounded like a great idea to Minho. He didn't like the feel of it, especially because he doesn't like to be the weaker one. "Fine." He stood up, going with Ratman.

They ended up going to a large bathroom lined with lockers and showers. And one of the lockers was open to show fresh clothes and a pair of shoes. Even a watch.

"You have about thirty minutes," Rat Man said. "When you're done, just sit tight - I'll come back for you. Then you'll be reunited with most your friends." He paused, then added: "See you in a half hour." Then he pulled the door open and closed it behind him, leaving Minho alone once more.

 _Most of my friends_? Minho thought.

He stripped his filthy clothes off and stood under the hot water, rinsing away everything. It was like a new start - at the place he hated the most. After he rinsed himself off a few times and felt human again, he chanced into new pair of clothes - T-shirt and jeans, running shoes, just like the ones he'd worn in the Maze, and fresh, soft socks - that he put on after drying off. Minho felt like Minho again, like he was back in the Glade.

Minho stood in front of the mirror. He felt - that little voice inside of him - that there would be an improvement on how things worker now; that he was going to have more control over his body. But as he turned around to walk out, Minho caught a glimpse of the tattoo. The words, _The Leader, Group A, Subject A7_ , would forever remain there.

After changing, Minho walked out and Ratman was waiting for him. "Well, aren't you looking better? Shall we?" Ratman asked.

"Thanks." Minho nodded. "I wouldn't say the same for you, though. You could use-" he was cut off.

"That's enough," Ratman interrupted. "I gave you a complement. Be a gentlemen and return it."

" _Thanks,_ " Minho repeated, his lips curled into a smile. "I bet my hair looks as shiny as your bald spot now."

"I don't know why I try with you."

Minho nodded and followed Ratman but only because he was pleased with the shower - and well, his smart remarks. The walk was silent other than when Ratman informed Minho that the other Gladers _did_ go through their own Phase Three - and some are still doing it. Which answered Minho question about why he was only seeing _most_ of his friends. Other than that, Ratman just went on but Minho wasn't listening about the killzones and patterns. He was just ecstatic to see his friends.

The cafeteria when they finally got there wasn't that full. But just like every other room, floor, wall, anything, it was white. Minho got a tray of a slab of ham, mashed potatoes, raw carrots, slice of bread, and water. It wasn't much, but he ate it like it was going out of season.

"What about my beautiful face?" Minho asked as he ate.

"What about it?" Ratman questioned.

Minho pushed his empty tray forward. "It's gonna be bruised?"

"You'll be fine."

Minho was taken back to his white-cell-like room after. Of course, it looked like all the other rooms, but it look a while to walk to. And why would Minho be throw into some other room? Ratman dug inside his pocket for the key and Minho placed his hands on his hips.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Why are we back here?"

"The other Subjects-"

Minho put his figure up. "Do not call us _Subjects,_ shuck-face."

"The others are not finished with their Trials," Ratman replied, popping the door open. "Yours was one of the quickest."

"So how much longer am I supposed to suffer in here, then?" Minho asked, stepping in the room again. He spotted the wooden table, right in the middle of the room where he left it.

"Less than 30 days." Ratman shut and lock the door, leaving Minho out-of-his mind bored once more.


	3. Chapter 3

A day pasted a Minho was still in the white-walled room. Well, he thought it was a day. Maybe he was supposed to go to sleep, considering Ratman took him to get dinner - not in the weird way. But Minho couldn't sleep; that was what he got the least. Instead, he walked around the table more, talking to himself - talking to the people watching him. His blood started to boil once he remembered how Ratman said he'd be reunited wit the other Gladers. Was he, though? Nope; Minho was bored out of his mind still in the white-walled room. Alone.

"Why are you still doing this? You said I'd be with my friends, so why are they not here? Jesus, white is so boring." Comments just poured from his mouth.

Rubbing his eyes, Minho started to scratch at the wall paper. Everything was just so white, _too_ white. He eventually picked up the table, griping it by the legs. And ran at the door with the table over his head. The wood smashed into pieces, but the door remained perfectly fine. Not even a scratch. Now there was small wood pieces all over the floor; and Minho had nothing to walk around.

Well, until the door opened.

Minho didn't bother hiding himself or his emotions. For one, it was Ratman who opened the door, and Minho didn't like him anyways. "Why was I left in here?" he snapped.

"Good morning, Minho." Ratman had the door opened all the way.

"Take me to my friends."

Ratman nodded. "Yes, Minho," he replied. "Come with me."

Minho exited the white walled room and entered the white walled hallways for the thousandth time. He was brought by Ratman to an auditorium where he ran inside, relief washing over him. "Holy klunk!" Minho exclaimed. "I can't believe you shanks are okay!"

Sitting scattered among a dozen or so rows of seats were his friends, safe and healthy-looking. The Gladers and girls of Group B. Frypan. Newt. Aris. Sonya. Harriet. Everyone seemed happy - talking, smiling and laughing - though maybe they were faking, to some extent. Minho assumed they'd also been told things were almost over, but he doubted anyone believed it. He certainly didn't.

But where was Thomas?

"Minho!" Newt shouted. "Is it really you?"

Minho walked over to his Second-In-Command. "Shuck yeah!" he replied. "Where's Thomas, though?"

"Still working on the trial?" Newt suggested.

Minho was severed breakfast and lunch. He happily ate with his friends - just not Thomas - and hung out in a another white walled room. But this one had games. After that, he was sent back to his white cell. But for many days after, Minho's life was the same. Although, once in a while he would get a shot. Minho was getting _eh_ with WICKED. He still hated them down to the bones.

Especially when he was missing one of his best friends. But once Thomas did arrive, things got worse, and worse.

This is a rollercoaster, and Minho had just got on the ride.

* * *

Horrible ending. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I just kind of stopped writing this for a while. Anyways, I did rush this a little bit. But I didn't know how to exactly describe it all. But thanks for reading... C'ya around.

 _Hopefully._


End file.
